by Unknown
"Well, you're…" She paused, obviously trying to think of a polite way to say what he probably didn't want to hear. "Supernatural. Or should I say reanimated?"
He planted his hands on his knees and felt a drop of sweat slide down his back as she resumed her assault. "I regret to inform you that while I may be reconstituted, as it may. I have always been, and I remain, a mortal man."
She winced. "Right. Sorry. I suppose I was thinking about vampires."
"I'm not a vampire," he rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I can age and I can certainly die."
Her lips parted slightly.
The hollow feeling in his gut grew.
Dante didn't know how much time he had, but if Amie didn't offer him more of her magic, freely and completely, their bond would wear away. Then he'd be truly and forever dead.
He couldn't let that happen.
"Put it down," he said, taking the cotton and the iodine from her and placing them behind him in the tub. "Now," he said, standing, purposely keeping his distance, "I will show you just how alive I am." He held out his hand to her.
Amie hesitated. He could see the wild pulse at her neck, hear her shallow breathing. The air in the small room had grown quite warm. Slowly, he reached for her hand. She swallowed hard as he drew her closer and placed her hand over his beating heart.
She exhaled as they both felt his heart pound against his chest.
He took her other hand and touched it to his lips. "I am human. Just like you."
She blinked once, twice. Confusion trickled across her features. "But back in the cemetery, you went after those possessed men unarmed."
"Yes," he said. He'd do it again.
She lingered on his arm. "You mean, if the bullet had hit you in the chest, you would have died?" Realization dawned in her. "You almost died for me? Why?"
He felt the corners of his mouth tug as he returned his tired and battered body to the edge of the tub. "I am a gentleman. And I didn't want to watch you die."
She sat down next to him. "Nobody's ever risked themselves for me like that."
He closed his hand over hers. "I'm sorry to hear it," he said. And he meant it.
She deserved that kind of love, that kind of respect.
He'd be that kind of man for her if she'd only let him.
Why today's women did everything on their own was beyond him. In his time, most came from large, extended families. Husbands protected their wives. Families spent lifetimes building large networks of friends. People helped one another.
It was one of the things he'd missed most of all, haunting the cemetery alone after his own family had passed on.
"The bleeding isn't stopping," she said, worried.
"No," he said. He couldn't fully heal himself. Not until she could open herself up and give him a little of the magic she'd used to call him, the magic he needed to survive.
The kicker was, he couldn't ask. It had to be freely given.
Still, she was wary of him. He'd have to proceed carefully.
He watched as she wound a thick white bandage around his arm.
What had his grandmother always said? Patience. Small steps. He'd never been good at that. Dante drew his fingers slowly over Amie's as she secured the bandage with medical tape. Perhaps he'd learned to temper himself over the past two centuries. He'd gotten her talking, which was no small thing.
And perhaps she understood him a little better too.
Life was precious. He knew that now.
Now all he had to do was convince her.
Tomorrow, he thought, as he moved to her library and sank into a soft recliner. He'd do it. Somehow, he'd convince her he deserved a second chance at life.
And perhaps he'd show her a thing or two about living as well.
6
F or the first time, Amie regretted the mirrors on her ceiling. They used to be fun and funky. Now all she could do was stare at herself lying in bed amid an immense pile of books she'd dragged in from her library.
Past the sleeping Dante.
At least someone could get some rest. It was five in the morning—nearly dawn. Amie stared at her reflection. Her hair frizzed at odd angles, her eyelids had puffed to twice the normal size, and she had a line down the side of her face from falling asleep on top of a hardback collector's edition of Out of the Darkness: The Ethnobiology of the Modern Zombie.
She looked like hell. And why not? She'd certainly put herself through it in the last five hours. Five hours? Is that all it took to ruin a life?
The past night had been a disaster.
Well, except for those scorching kisses. And the strong beat of his heart on the palm of her hand. The gesture had been oddly comforting. It made her feel safe, which was ridiculous.
Dante was dangerous, unpredictable. She shouldn't like it. Men like him were nothing but trouble.
She wriggled at the memory of Dante—all of him—as he pulled her flush against him and kissed her senseless. Well, there was nothing wrong with having a moment or two. She couldn't deny that she enjoyed his touch. She just needed to keep things in perspective. The only difference between this and her mother's failed attempts at love was that Amie knew Dante was going to leave.
A zombie will deteriorate and die again once it has fulfilled its purpose or once the voodoo mambo no longer requires its services.
She refused to let him hurt her on the way out.
Amie rubbed her eyes, red and gritty from lack of sleep. Why hadn't she gotten a zombie who would clean her shop? Or keep Isoke from chasing alligators? But no. She'd called up a man who wanted to make her fall in love with him. Amie tensed as she heard him moan in his sleep. She could almost see him stretched out shirtless on her green La-Z-Boy. Part of her couldn't believe a man like that wanted her. Voodoo zombies wouldn't come unless they were called to do something they wanted to do.
She rolled over into the pillow. Bosou! What was she thinking?
This time yesterday, she'd been totally in control. Oh for the days of all work and no play, when men were boring and life made sense.
What she'd discovered reading through her research books, well, she still couldn't believe it. Amie rolled to her side and reached for a thick red book with a broken spine—a magical tome that had been her grandmother’s. Her mother had sworn it only contained the absolute truth.
Amie had snapped the binding when she threw it off the bed earlier this morning. She brushed through its crushed opening pages. Her fault, when she'd fisted them out of shock. She opened the book to the place she didn't really want to see again. Still, she had to look. It was like a car wreck—she couldn't look away.
A love spell can only be used to call a zombie if said zombie is the voodoo practitioner's one true love.
Ridiculous.
Laughable.
If she didn't have the niggling suspicion that it could be true.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god…" She shoved the book off the bed and watched it land in a heap on the floor. The pages crackled as they began fixing themselves.
He couldn't be. He just couldn't. Dante was temporary. He was leaving. He was all wrong.
And Amie was always right.
DANTE NEEDED another cup of coffee. Hell, he needed another pot. His head swam as he braced one hand on Amie's living room window sill and watched the sun rise over Royale Street.
He was not going back into that kitchen.
The Good Girl's Guide to Love Magik lay open on the flowered tablecloth, right where he'd left it. The thick tome was pink, which made it worse.
Besides, he didn't need to look at the starred, underlined entry to know what it said.
A love spell will bind for a maximum of three days and nights. If love magic is not exchanged during that time, the spell will be broken.
She'd made it clear she didn't want him. She had no desire to fall in love with him. Now he had three days to convince her. It wasn't enough time. Hell, he'd been engaged to his late wife for six months and he hadn't known she didn't care unti
l he found her in bed with the arrogant ass that owned the estate next door.
Maybe he just hadn't wanted to see the truth.
Dante swiped at the blood trickling down his arm. He'd need to find a new bandage. The wound throbbed, refusing to heal.
It wouldn't get better without her love magic. He didn't have the ability to heal himself. Not until the spell was permanent.
Did he even want that anymore?
He watched a few industrious shopkeepers hose off the streets in front of their stores. His former wife, Sophia, had married him out of duty. Their fathers ran a shipping business together. Sure, she'd been attracted to him. At least, she had been at first. But like the feathered hats she collected, Dante was one more object to be had, one more conquest. At least she'd admitted it.
While she'd been pleading with him not to shoot her lover.
He felt the stab in his gut as if it were yesterday.
The kicker was—he'd loved her. Now she was dead and he might be—again—sooner rather than later.
Dante rubbed his chin, feeling the start of a beard and gave a small chuckle. He hadn't had to shave in one hundred and ninety-eight years.
Now he had another chance at life. Dante opened the window and let morning filter into the room—birds chirping, the smell of sunshine and fresh cut grass, shopkeepers laughing and calling to one another. He stood for a moment and just listened. He'd enjoy the little things while they lasted.
Dante glanced behind him at Amie's closed door. He'd take one day at a time, because right now, his one true love didn't seem to know what she wanted and he was running out of time.
He sighed.
Well, he'd rather be dead than have another woman pledge herself to him out of obligation. His feet moved on their own until he stood outside her orange painted door. He detected a trace of her honeysuckle perfume and placed a hand on the smooth wood. If Amie didn't want him, he'd leave. But first, he'd do his damnedest to show her why she'd brought him back.
AMIE ROLLED OVER AND STRETCHED. Mmm…something was baking. She detected the heavenly aroma of cinnamon and bananas, along with fresh brewed coffee. Her house never smelled like this. She certainly didn't cook.
She cracked her eyes open. She couldn't believe she'd actually fallen asleep. Sunlight streamed in from her window. Delivery trucks rumbled down the alley. Then she heard Dante singing, low and deep.
Yawning, she extricated a book out from under her cheek and rubbed at her face.
She'd give it to him. The man had an amazing voice. She sat up slowly as the cobwebs cleared from her head.
For a moment, she thought she recognized the song. "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You," only different.
Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment.
A haunting melody.
Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
He sounded like a Spanish Elvis. And from the sound of lapping water, he was in her tub.
She pushed her way through the books, to where her bedside clock lay facedown. She lifted it enough to look at the big, red numbers. It was only nine in the morning. She let go of the clock and it tumbled down, face-first again. According to her books, zombies had to sleep at least twelve hours a night. Just who did he think he was?
J'ai tout quitté pour l'ingrate Celeste.
Elle me quitte et prend un autre aimant.
Water splashed in her tub as he hit a low note. She lurched out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.
Coffee gurgled on the stove. He'd used her grandma's ancient pot instead of the plug-in KitchenAid on her counter. To each his own. She opened the oven and peeked at the bubbling dough inside. He could cook too. It figured.
Wouldn't it be nice if her life was really like this? Waking up to a hot breakfast and a hot man.
It was such a tease.
Amie pulled a Doctor Who mug from above the sink and poured herself a hot, steaming cup of coffee. She closed her eyes at the rich flavor with just a hint of vanilla.
She scanned her countertops for the package he'd used. She hadn't bought any vanilla coffee.
Her fingers tightened on her cup when she saw one of her spell books open on the kitchen table. He'd been doing some research of his own.
It was the pink love magic book, one of her mother's. Amie groaned. She hadn't had time to go through all of her mom's books yet. This one was well used. It figured her mom would resort to voodoo.
And now Amie had too.
Terrific. Just like Mom.
She sighed. Well, at least she wasn't taking any strange men to bed. She dragged a hand across her face. She was just letting them in her tub.
Water splashed as he got out. She heard the towel bar clank. As if she needed him in her kitchen too. She topped off her coffee.
Fingers shaking, Amie rubbed at her temples and told herself she had about two minutes to get it together.
She was wrong.
The bathroom door swung open. "Ah! You are awake."
Water droplets beaded at his shoulders as he strolled through her front room with a towel wrapped around his waist and a fresh bandage white against his skin. His short black hair stood at spiky angles, which only accented the sharp planes of his face.
Amie straightened, felt her toes curl.
She took a quick swallow of coffee, just to do something—anything—and singed her throat. "Of course I'm awake," she croaked, telling herself the heat in her belly was, in fact, from the coffee. She cleared her throat. "The real question is why are you up and about?"
"Community Coffee Dark Roast," he said, as he pulled a House of Blues mug from the sink and poured himself another helping. "I find myself acting like a complete zombie before my first cup."
"That's not funny," she said, momentarily distracted by a water droplet that slid down his perfect back and settled under the towel.
"Breakfast?" he asked, using one of her grandma's woven pot holders to pull a tray of banana fritters out of the oven.
They looked like a cross between a doughnut and a pancake. "You made these?"
He sprinkled the fritters with powdered sugar and grabbed them each a plate. "I watched Cook do it many times. Then I merely dreamed about them for twenty decades,” he added wistfully, as he served her a portion. “I admit the stove was a bit of a trick."
Amie bit into a warm, doughy fritter and almost had an orgasm.
He joined her, and they ate in silence. It was almost too domestic. Amie squirmed in her seat. She had no business wanting this.
She welcomed the distraction of gathering up the plates and insisting he take the last cup of coffee.
"Now that we have eaten, there is something we need to discuss." He leaned against her yellow countertop and took a long sip from his mug, eyeing her as he did it. "You used a love spell to call me from the grave."
"Yes," she said, stacking the plates in the sink, "but I didn't call you necessarily."
Amie fought back a sliver of guilt. Who was she kidding? She did call him. She saw him in her mind's eye, scar and all. He'd responded voluntarily because he could love her back. Now, here he was, her perfect man.
And if he could somehow touch her that deep, then having him and losing him would be worse than all of her mom's heartbreak put together.
She just wasn't ready.
She didn't think she'd ever be ready.
"Give me three days," he said.
She nearly knocked her cup off the counter. "Excuse me?" He couldn't be serious. She didn't know if she could ever open herself up to the kind of hurt she might find in a real relationship, but, rushing certainly wouldn't help. "Three days? I can't decide anything in three days." It had taken her longer than that to pick out her kitchen curtains. "Besides, I have a life. I have a shop to run."
Dante set his mug on the table behind him. "Yes, but is this the life you want?" he asked pointedly.
"Yes." Mostly. How could he look confident and inviting when what he was asking was absurd? "You don't understand."
&nb
sp; He walked to her and took her hands in his. They were warm and strong. It felt both exciting and nerve wracking. She wanted to run, but she knew it would kill her to destroy this moment. So she didn't. She waited. He leaned down to her, his face inches from hers.
Was he going to kiss her again?
She hesitated. Would she let him?
"Let me court you," he said, a breath from her ear.
"For real?" she asked, warmth settling in a place she'd rather not think about. She liked it when men opened doors for her, but to be courted? By a ravishingly handsome eighteenth-century gentleman? In a towel?
His hands traveled up her arms, burning a path to her shoulders. "Si. If it is right, three days will have to be enough," he said, his expression intense, earnest. "If it is not, I will accept that."
She searched his face, his blue eyes so electric and sincere. "Will you really?" She was suddenly disappointed that it could be over so soon.
"I will leave," he said solemnly.
"Knowing that it took me more than three days to decide if I even wanted to go out with my last boyfriend?" she said, giving fair warning.
The lines around his eyes crinkled as he gave her a tight smile. "Yes."
Interesting. She hadn't him pegged as the type to give up in less than a week. "What’s the catch?"
He touched his fingers to her chin, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the soft patch of skin below her lips. Heat curled through her. "No catch, querida. I have waited two hundred years for you." He brushed his lips against her forehead, "You called me back. Now I will show you why." His lips brushed her cheek.
"I already know why." She'd been weak. She'd been lonely, and only too human.
If she wasn't careful, it was going to hurt something terrible when he left.
She forced herself to stand tall, ignoring the insane desire to touch him back.
"You will enjoy my attentions, I assure you,” he murmured.
She broke away from him. "Look, I'm not an eighteenth-century miss. I don't expect love poems and flattery. I know better than to think flowers cure everything. I'd think you were crazy if you threw your jacket over a puddle or expected me to simper around while you do manly things. I have a mind of my own, a successful business, a life, for goodness sake, and I'm not going to fall in love and make a lifetime commitment because somebody says I should."